


The Skillful Workman

by indecisivelyindependent



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anthea (Sherlock) Appreciation, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sally Donovan Appreciation, let's talk about mental health, literary references give me life, molly hooper is a mess, mycroft is a meddling mess, sherlock holmes is a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 17,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25471030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indecisivelyindependent/pseuds/indecisivelyindependent
Summary: It had been, Molly Hooper would reflect in later years, far worse than the “not a good day” she’d tried to make it out to be.[the fallout of The Final Problem]
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 156
Kudos: 269





	1. Prologue: The Worst Day

**Author's Note:**

> [Loads of stateside mistakes, I'm sure. Not for profit, nothing but a dissertation-procrastination and quarantine-survival method. I just finished a whole-series rewatch, and this is what happens.]
> 
> [CW: This fic contains discussions/descriptions of anxiety, panic disorder, cognitive behavioral therapy, antisocial personality disorder (sociopathy), and depression. Trauma is constant in the lives of our Baker Street friends, and mental illness is no small thing. If you or someone you know is struggling with mental illness, you can find a helpline in your country here: https://togetherweare-strong.tumblr.com/helpline.]

_“I consider that a man’s brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose… Now the skillful workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes into his brain attic… It is a mistake to think that that little room has elastic walls and can distend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes a time for when every addition of knowledge you forget something that you knew before.”_

_**~ “The Science of Deduction,” Sir Arthur Conan Doyle**_

_Although antisocial personality disorder is considered lifelong, in some people, certain symptoms—particularly destructive and criminal behavior—may decrease over time. But it's not clear whether this decrease is a result of aging or an increased awareness of the consequences of antisocial behavior._

_**~ The Mayo Clinic, “Symptoms of Antisocial Personality Disorder”**_

* * *

It had been, Molly Hooper would reflect in later years, far worse than the “not a good day” she’d tried to make it out to be.

Oh, it wasn’t some all-encompassing disaster, but instead the accumulation of many small things: a week’s worth of late nights filing reports on the latest batch of interns, unnecessary negotiations with the landlord about refrigerator replacement, Samantha Lewis’s wedding invitation including a plus-one despite the fact that Sam knew, Sam _knew_ it had been almost two years since Tom and that Molly hadn’t dated anyone since. And Rosie… Molly loved her goddaughter to pieces, she truly did, but there was nothing like a warm, cuddly baby—someone _else’s_ warm, cuddly baby—to remind her that 40 was steadily, suddenly closer than 35.

So she’d been in the kitchen trying to cheer herself up, making a cuppa, cozying into one of her favorite jumpers, fighting back exhaustion, nausea, whatever little petty emotions she thought she’d buried deep enough. Deep breaths over the sink, because she felt like dry heaving. Focusing on the smell of citrus peels and tea leaves, the hum of the kettle.

Then her mobile rang, and it was Sherlock—of _course_ it was Sherlock, always finding her at her worst—and she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t pick herself up and dust herself off for him, not again, or at least not today. Tomorrow, maybe, or the day after, but not today. So she let the call ring though, knowing he’d hang up without listening to her stupid joke of a voicemail— _The dead center of town? Really, Molly?_ His scoff, his raised eyebrow, his quirked lips that only seemed to match his eyes when he thought he was alone. He could be alone, for once, couldn’t he? If John wasn’t there for him today, she didn’t need to be. He'd survive. He always did.

But the phone rang again, and in that moment she was mad enough—at herself, mostly, but also at him—that saying nothing seemed more cowardly than telling him off.

It had been an awful day. Then it got worse.


	2. The Empty Flat

That _fucker_. The bloody _fucking nerve_.

When Molly came back to herself, she was backed into the corner against the cupboards, knees tucked up under her chin. The lemon and the knife and the phone were strewn across the floor, as if they’d fallen to the ground, too, in commiseration. The light outside was dimmer than it had been, she thought. Her hands were shaking, two fists twisted into the hem of her jumper.

She rubbed a sleeve across her eyes and reached for her mobile, but stayed sitting on the floor. It was just past seven, and she didn’t have any Saturday night plans, so she was unsurprised that the only text was from Greg, asking her to call him back as soon as she was able. Always polite, Greg, always smiling even when Sherlock—

Molly could hear her own heartbeat, loud and insistent in her chest. _You told him_ , a part of her was screaming, _you_ told _him._ She couldn’t tell if the screams were angry or despairing or triumphant.

It wasn’t a game, he’d said. Damn right it wasn’t a game. No one had fucking won _anything._

She’d call Greg back tomorrow.  
  


* * *

After scrambling some eggs and drinking down a remade cup of tea, she ended up falling asleep on the sofa to reruns of Fawlty Towers, Toby purring next to her on an armrest.

She jolted awake to a pounding at the door. Toby was mewling back at the voices outside.

“Molly?” There were sirens on the street, but Sally Donovan’s voice carried through. “Molly, come on, come _on_.” She’d never heard quite that tone from Sally before—petrified, if she had to guess, and frantic. Molly put the telly on mute and scrambled into some trainers before pulling the door open.

“Sally, I was going to call Greg in the morning—”

But Sally and three other officers had already pushed past her, flicking on lights as they scattered into the flat.

“Molly, it’s not the time to be _slow_ when you could have _fucking died_ today. I know you and Freak have a _thing_ going and I honestly wouldn’t blame you if you never spoke to him again, but the silent treatment is never actually helpful.” Sally was scrambling to look under the sofa, shining her torch along the window ledge, tipping back the coffee table, pulling up the rug. “I swear to God, one of these days I’m going to transfer to Traffic without telling Greg. Grab Toby, Mols, before he makes a run for it. _Not that I blame him_ ,” the last bit a stage whisper as she began pulling books from the shelves along the wall.

Molly stared at her from the doorway, reaching down to grab Toby before he could dash out the front door. _Died?_

“This room’s clear, so you can sit down and stop staring. I’ll fill you in on the ride in, but first I’m going to go deal with the bathroom—told the boys they should avoid that one and your closet. No time to make tea, so I’d suggest you think about what you need for a week away and pack a quick bag once I’m through down the hall.” As she walked past towards the hall, Sally gave her a brisk pat on the shoulder. “Chin up, Mols. Freak won’t let you die. He’ll kill us if we miss something, and he knows how to hide bodies.”

Somewhere in the middle of Sally’s chatter—was she _nervous_? Sally was _never_ nervous—Molly found herself back on the sofa, probably gripping Toby a bit too hard, and blinking at the brilliance of every lightbulb in the flat. She could still hear the sirens out front, and the footsteps of men in the kitchen—were they opening _every damn cupboard_? She heard the squawk of a radio and Sally running back down the hall and something about cameras. She blinked. Packing. Sally had said something about packing a bag for a week, which meant leaving for a week. Shoes, jumpers, knickers, a pair of leggings or two, Toby’s cat food and litter box. Maybe a book. Probably a passport. Her travel-sized toiletries were always prepped, just in case she needed to kit out at the lab. Mobile charger. Laptop.

Died. _You could have fucking died today_.

Sally came back into the room and dimmed down the lights. “All clear in your room, Mols, though we’ll avoid the kitchen for now. I grabbed your mobile, though I’m afraid I’m going to hold onto it for a bit. We’ll leave your computer here too. Just grab some non-tech essentials.” Sally reached down and tugged at Molly’s hands, pulling her to her feet. “I’ll get one of the boys to grab Toby’s things while we get your bag.”

“Sally, wha—” Molly tried to form a question, though she didn't know what kind of question she was trying to ask, but Sally shook her head.

“Not here, Molly. Once we’re in the IRV we can chat, but not here.”

The other officers were coming through the hall. One had Toby’s carrier and dishes, and another held a small plastic bag up to show Sally. It looked to Molly like it held four small black buttons.

“Should be clear, Donovan. We’ll take them in with the mobile and run the usual.”

“Good work, Jones. Molly and I will be out shortly. I’ll be driving her in, but don’t leave until we’ve gone.”

Sally steered her by the shoulders into her bedroom. Her brain felt muddled, but she managed to pull a small duffle from under the bed, and Sally went into the bath for the toiletries. Molly pulled a few jumpers from the closet, a pair of jeans, some knickers and bras and socks. _War and Peace_ was sitting like a brick on the nightstand, so she threw that in the bag. Some light reading, she thought, like a holiday.

“Not a holiday, Mols, but not a bad idea to bring a book.” Sally came back in. “I turned out the lights, so if you’re ready, we’ll go.”

It was a little brisk outside, about three in the morning, not light yet. Late August and it already felt like mid-September, the breeze cool on her face as she locked the door behind them. Sally put the duffle in the backseat and helped Molly adjust the seatbelt. Out the window, her flat looked much the same as it always did, but something had shifted. The siren lights were still blinking against the glass. Every curtain was drawn closed.

As they pulled onto the A10, Molly watched Sally’s face, lit up now and then by the street lamps. She shook her head, and, glancing Molly’s way, let out a breath.

“There’s one thing you need to know first, before I tell you the rest.” Sally’s grip on the wheel tightened. “Freak has a sister.”


	3. The Waterloo Door

“Freak has a sister.”

Molly choked on the inhale. Sally glanced over at her, shook her head, and looked back towards the road.

“Water bottle’s in the door pocket, Mols. I know, it’s… staggering. Greg said it took the entire helicopter ride to Cardiff before he was able to imagine what a little-sister version of the Holmes boys could even possibly be like. She’s a year younger than Freak, more brilliant, apparently, enough to merit government protection even when she kills people, kept in isolation off the coast, but still nearly managed to off both of her brothers, John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, and you. All in one day.”

Molly felt like she was gasping for air. _A sister_. The most inane thought was the one that she managed to hold onto— _I’ve always wanted a younger sister._ But Sherlock never—

“Freak didn’t know, apparently. Managed to erase her thanks to his fancy-mind hocus-pocus and Mycroft’s hiding her away. _Jesus_ , Molly, can you imagine it? A little sister so horrible she has to disappear? And then what you're left with is _Mycroft_?”

Molly’s fingers had started twisting in the ends of her hair. She closed her eyes for a moment, started counting the seconds. _One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three…_ She let go of her hair to take a swig from the water bottle, clenching the tiny cap in her palm hard enough to feel its ridges.

“Sally, you said Greg went to Cardiff?”

“Freak’s old family home was out there, apparently. Eurus—that’s the sister—made this whole plan to escape from solitary, something about family and abandonment and hope, Greg said, but the copter was loud and I missed most of what he was saying at that point. Reception was awful, and we were scrambling to get to you, not to mention the clean-up at Baker Street.”

The car was just crossing the Thames, after turning off the A10 towards Farringdon, and Molly guessed that they were headed straight for New Scotland Yard. She sipped some more water and watched the buildings pass, but Sally pulled off onto a side street just past Waterloo Station. Molly could see another IRV parked in front of an unassuming terrace house. Sally nodded at it as they pulled to a stop.

“That’s us. Must be nice, having bolt holes all over town.” Sally went for the duffle in the back as Molly got out of the car and stepped up onto the curb. “Door’s not going to bite, Molly. You can go on in. I need to let Greg know you’re here.” She passed Molly her bag and gave her a little shove towards the door. “I’ll see you in a few hours. There’s tea in there, you know. Don’t keep it waiting.”

* * *

Whatever she thought lay beyond the door, it wasn’t… this. All this marble tile and brass fixtures and velvet curtains and walnut bookshelves. And a posh looking woman sitting in an armchair who looked a little like Kate Middleton and a lot like she didn’t enjoy being kept waiting. It was ungodly, that there were people able to look like that at this hour of the morning. The woman raised her eyes from her mobile screen as Molly stepped into the foyer, and stood with an outstretched hand.

“Molly Hooper, I presume?”

“Ye—yes, I’m Molly.” Molly reached out to grasp her hand and was relieved to see that her own hand was no longer shaking. She tried to manage the kind of handshake she’d offer in the morgue: professional, detached, quick on the release.

The woman gave a short nod. “Excellent. I have the kettle on for you, but first a quick tour. Parlor to your left, dining room to your right, with the kitchen behind. Up the stairs you’ll find both the bathroom and your bedroom. Toby is waiting for you there, probably on the bed—”

“—if not under it.” Molly finished for her. “Thank you, I know I should thank you, but I don’t know who you are. Or why I’m here, really, because Sally tried her best, I think, but all I got was that Greg went to Cardiff and Sherlock has a sister and for whatever reason someone tried to kill me today. Or yesterday.” _And I’d really like a good cry, I think, but I don’t want to fall apart in front of you._

The woman gave a pursed-lip smile, but it somehow managed to warm her eyes. “My name is Anthea. I am a colleague of Mycroft, and it’s my job to make sure you get some tea and get some rest. We might wait on the tea, though.”

“God, you sound like Mrs. Hudson.” Molly couldn’t help that a bit of tired snark entered her voice. “I hope that you wait to do the hoovering until a bit later in the morning, though, because I’m about to crash to the floor.”

Anthea reached for her bag and started up the stairs. “Not your housekeeper, Dr. Hooper.”

* * *

When she finally opened her eyes the next morning, after a good ten minutes of trying to determine why the bed linens were that much softer than usual, Molly groaned. She felt a bit like she’d been beaten over the head, but there was the usual weight of Toby near her ankles and a soft light filtering in from the window.

Not Haggerston, not the flat or the little room off her office at St. Bart's. Waterloo. Nervous Sally, posh Anthea. Something about helicopters and sisters and Sherlock.

 _I love you_.

Molly sat up at the thought. There’d been enough tears last night. The moment Anthea closed the door, Molly had thrown herself across the bed and let herself have a good weep into the five-million-thread-count pillowcases. Mycroft could afford to launder them out, she guessed. But there didn't need to be a repeat performance this morning, not if there were to be interviews or examinations or an appearance at court. Or whatever happened after being unknowingly almost-nearly killed by the phantom sister of a… friend.

The house seemed quiet, though a look at the clock on the wall showed it was almost noon. Giving Toby a quick cuddle, to which he was not very responsive, she pulled on an oversized jumper and a pair of jeans before darting across the hall to wash her face and brush her teeth. There was no one in sight from the landing, so she closed the door to keep the cat in the bedroom and made her way sock-footed down the stairs.

Turning into the dining room, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Sitting there at the head of the table, nursing a cup of what looked to be lukewarm tea, was a very haggard, and very put-out, Mycroft Holmes.


	4. The Wedgwood Blue

“Molly,” Mycroft nodded at a chair slightly down the table from where he sat. “Tea?” His voice sounded a bit… off. Cracked. He didn’t seem to be able to look her in the face, instead focusing on the wall just behind her shoulder.

She pulled out the seat indicated and nodded in return. “Yes, please. A bit of lemon, too, if you have it.” The echoes of yesterday’s screams were starting to rise in her mind, but she pushed them down. If Mycroft was going to be somberly civil, she could return the favor.

Anthea walked through the doorway to the kitchen pushing a tea trolley. _A bit below her pay-grade, I’d imagine_ , Molly thought. “Lemon, Dr. Hooper,” said Anthea as she passed her a small jasperware saucer, as well as a larger plate with two eggs and a muffin. She set the tea service slightly to the side. “Anything else?”

Molly shook her head. “No, thank you.” It was about all she could manage, a brief sentence, though there were other words spiraling. Along with the echoes, her heartbeat had racketed up again. She rubbed her hands on her thighs and tried to relax her shoulders. Knowing what she knew about Mycroft via Sherlock’s off-hand muttering and Philip Anderson’s wild speculations, he’d probably read her the way Sherlock would, if not better. Apparently there were certain things Sherlock could avoid seeing. Mycroft, though, didn’t seem like he’d avoid picking at any loose lovelorn thread.

“Tea won’t stay warm, Molly.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow and looked disconcertingly like his brother. “Do I need to pour?” She caught that brokenness again, a tinge of sarcasm trying to disguise it.

Molly fisted her hands and released them. _Damn it._ They’d started shaking again. “It might—might be best if you did.” Molly looked at the tea set. “I don’t think you’d want me dropping that on your floor. I wouldn’t be able to afford it.” The teapot, soft blue with a circle of delicate white figures, was identical to one she’d seen at the V&A on one excursion with her mum, years back. British Government, indeed. She wasn’t about to touch any eighteenth century stoneware with jittery fingers.

Mycroft paused in running his thumb along the handle of his own cup. He didn’t look any better prepared to pour than she was, Molly realized with surprise. He glanced back toward Anthea, who had lingered by the kitchen door. Anthea stepped forward and filled Molly’s cup before disappearing back into the kitchen along with the trolley. The door closed firmly behind her.

“Tea, Molly.” Mycroft was doing his best to look her in the eyes, and she could see concern there. He wasn’t wearing a suit jacket, his waistcoat was a bit rumpled, and his tiepin was missing. _Still nearly managed to off both of her brothers_ , Sally’s voice rang in her head.

She reached for a lemon slice and slid it into the cup. With two hands, she carefully took a sip. It was _good_ tea, the kind of cup you couldn’t help but breathe in before setting it down. Once the cup was back on its saucer, she looked back to Mycroft. His thumb was running along the handle again.

She refused to speak first. Mycroft wanted her here, it seemed, and it was up to him to explain why. All it took was a single raised eyebrow in return, and Mycroft let out the smallest of coughs, the kind that could almost be confused for a laugh.

“Very well, my dear. Anthea tells me that DS Donovan was a bit lax in her explanation last night. Your security clearance is high enough, and has been for years, so no need for concern that I’m holding back. You’re allowed to ask any questions related to my brother, myself, the events of yesterday, and any… new… previously…” He faltered and seemed to be searching for words.

“Your sister,” Molly spoke into the pause, hands clenched beneath the table again. She could hear a clock in the hall, the sound of water from a sink in the kitchen. The dining room was dark and paneled, even at noon, but the street-facing windows let in enough light for her to see Mycroft’s exhaustion, the fall of his shoulders. So it _was_ going to be up to her, after all. Typical for a man, unable to use his words.

“Sally said,” Molly spoke carefully, “that she—your sister—tried to kill you.” _We’ll start there_ , she thought, _leave everyone else out of it for as long as possible_. She was watching Mycroft’s face for any flicker of discomfort, but he was holding himself perfectly still, except for that tremor in his hands.

“Eurus has always been a difficult child.” Mycroft’s gaze was avoidant again, looking beyond her or through her towards something or someone else. “Even I am prone to the occasional lapse in judgement, Molly. My sister is a particular… soreness for me.”

Her fingers had twisted into the jumper hem again. “Lapse in judgement. You’re saying it’s your fault, whatever occurred yesterday?” _What the_ hell _happened yesterday?_

His eyes refocused back on her, and she felt a kind of piercing stab in her stomach. _Mycroft, what did she fucking_ do _to you?_ “Fault. Yes, yes, I think you could say it was my fault.”

Enough. Enough hiding and allusion and darkness. She stood up and pushed her chair back, Mycroft opening his mouth to, what, stop her? Where did he think she could go? It was a Sunday, for God’s sake. She couldn’t even use the lab as a proper excuse.

Instead, she gripped her chair and pulled it closer to Mycroft's, so close that she was sitting nearly at his elbow, right at the corner of the table. She slowly put a hand—still shaking, damn it, but so was his—on the cuff of his shirtsleeve. He had nowhere to run, either, it appeared.

“Mycroft, just tell me. Whatever it is, it can’t be fucking worse than what I’ve already done for—”

“Moriarty.” He cut her off with a sharp look, that flash of uninhibited concern. “I gave her Moriarty.”


	5. The Garden Folly

Jim.

* * *

_No muscles in the body can be both tensed and relaxed at the same time, Molly. Start with your arms. Dominant arm first, then nondominant. Forehead, jaw. Neck. Throat…_

* * *

_Breathe through your diaphragm, not your chest. Eupnea. External intercostal muscles, then the internal. Again. Deeper. Again._

* * *

_Situation, Molly. Name the situation._

_Mycroft said his name, when I thought he was going to say something else. It was a surprise. I thought I was past this._

_Thoughts. Panic, a little bit of panic. No, that’s not right—panic is the emotion. Thought is Jim’s smile, Jim’s lie, Sherlock’s face after the fall, the back of Jim’s head—_

_Panic. Guilt, more than a little bit of guilt. I should have known, should have noticed, should have stopped him, should have—_

_Evidence. You didn’t have any evidence. He was nice. He had a smile. He was good at his job, the way you are good at your job. He was good at his lies._

_Evidence. You helped stop him. You helped stop him._

_I helped stop him._

* * *

“When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

* * *

Molly opened her eyes. Mycroft was leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes intent on her face.

“You’ve been to a CBT specialist.” It wasn’t a question.

She grimaced. Of course he’d recognize in thirty seconds what she’d worked for six years to make innate. “You don’t date a serial killer and not end up in therapy, _Mycroft_.” She tried to keep the bitterness out but gave up. “It was less than a _week_. Two coffees, one lunch, three fucking episodes of Glee at my flat. _Barely_ a date. Yes, I know, everyone knows that _John_ goes to a therapist—”

Mycroft made a little noise at this. She didn’t notice the way his face crumpled and then reset.

“—but John isn’t the only one. I work in the damn morgue. Then your brother asks me to help him die, but thank God the one who’s killed is _Jim from fucking IT_. Another year of therapy to get over _that_ little crisis, not that I could spell out the specifics to Lisa, who is an absolute saint to continue bearing with my non-specifics. So, yes, CBT. Works fucking wonders.”

She could beat Mycroft at sarcasm any day of the week.

Her cheeks felt flushed, but the tension had left her back and her hands were steady on the table. Mycroft looked… embarrassed? Chagrined? He looked a bit pink, too.

He coughed into a handkerchief. “I apologize, Molly. I should have realized. Anthea wanted to write me a script, but I thought…”

Molly waved a hand, brushing at the heaviness in the air. “Everyone thinks I’m going to shatter, and sometimes I do. But not every time. Not today. And now I’ve adjusted to the fact that you’re going to talk about Jim, and I’m going to listen.

“So please, _please_ tell me why the _fuck_ you would give Jim to your _own sister_.”

* * *

It took, by her count, three hours and eighteen minutes for Mycroft to work through the family history, Victor Trevor, Sherrinford, Musgrave, Jim Moriarty, and Eurus Holmes. Anthea came in with more tea and some sandwiches, which Molly ate more for the sake of eating than anything else. Anthea settled in across from Molly, phone close at hand but untouched, filling in gaps and pointedly glaring at Mycroft so that he’d drink tea whenever his voice started going hoarse.

Molly found herself asking questions every once in a while, about the blast at Baker Street, therapy practices at the prison (much good CBT did _there_ ), last night at Musgrave. But there were gaps. For all his “security clearance” talk, Mycroft was being… cagey. The details of Eurus's challenges were lacking. She knew it was the phone call, it _had_ to be the phone call, but she wasn’t going to bring it up. She couldn’t, not without a hot shower and another night’s rest, not in a ratty jumper pulled from a closet in the middle of the night, not with Anthea present, but not with Mycroft alone, either.

“So you got back to London and the first thing you did was come… here? To me?” That was another question she _did_ ask, because it seemed odd, no matter that she was in some way tied to Sherrinford. _She_ certainly wasn’t the British Government, even if they did pay her salary. Why Mycroft needed her not twelve hours after being freed from his psychotic sister’s labyrinthine scheme was beyond comprehension.

Mycroft glanced at Anthea. “I made contact with Anthea shortly after leaving Sherrinford, and she worked as quickly as she could to ensure you’d make it here safely. We felt that your flat had been compromised. I assure you, Molly, that you were at _least_ stop three for me today.”

A tinge of teasing had entered his voice, and Molly leaned back in her chair. Anthea was tapping away on her phone. They were finally reaching the end of this… debrief, it seemed.

“So what now? You have other stops to make today, I’m sure, but am I to stay here? Indefinitely? Sally said to take things for a week, and I brought a book to read, but I need to call in to work if I’m taking the next few nights off, and I was supposed to watch Rosie tomorrow morning for John… Oh, God, _Rosie_. Is she safe? Is she home? Can I go to John’s, instead? I can't stay here. I can't.” Her heartbeat was racing again, but _Rosie_.

Mycroft held up a hand, and Molly took a breath.

“Molly, we’ve taken care of notifying Dr. Stamford for you, of course. You’re on leave for the next few days, and Rosie will be joining you here later this evening. Anthea’s working to make up a nursery for her upstairs,” Anthea nodded at this, rising to head into the foyer, “and if there’s anything you need, you can use this.”

He set a sleek mobile on the table next to her tea.

“It has all of the people you’ll need. Please don’t contact anyone who’s number isn’t already in the phone—if we missed someone, and I don’t think we did, check with Anthea first.”

He stood to go, so Molly stood too. She didn’t move as he made his way to the foyer, the phone in one hand, her other hand braced on the back of the chair. Mycroft paused in the doorway to look back at her.

“You will need to stay here, Molly. Don’t turn the phone off. And please answer it on the first ring.”

The bastard. Mycroft Holmes was _teasing_ her. He _knew_.

But before she could make a retort, or ask a question, or say _anything_ , he was gone.


	6. The Sleepless Daughter

Molly took the mobile and her tea upstairs to the bedroom. She could hear Anthea talking to someone down the hall, most likely organizing for Rosie. Toby was sunning himself in a patch of light on the rug, blinking his eyes lazily at her as she sprawled across the bed. Feet on the pillows and propped up on her elbows, she placed her thumb on the fingerprint scanner. Of course the bloody thing already had her biometrics. Fucking British Government. Big Brother indeed.

It was a scrubbed interface, she could tell, like most burner phones. No web browser, but there was an encrypted email app linked to her Bart’s account. A contact list of nine names: Mum, her older sister Jill, therapist Lisa (smart, Mycroft), Mike Stamford, John Watson, Martha Hudson, Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, and Anthea (no last name—a bit strange, that, but not surprising).

No entries involving the last name Holmes.

She wasn’t sure if that glaring absence was a subliminal message from Mycroft, or if she could even bring herself to care. _Please answer it on the first ring_. Well, despite Mycroft’s obvious lack of tact, it appeared that Sherlock wouldn’t be calling—calling _again,_ the imp in her mind goaded—any time soon.

Email. She needed to go through whatever work emails were waiting. People died even on the weekends, after all, and her trainees were always spamming her inbox with case report questions. Molly had become rather militant about maintaining her Sunday-nights-to-Thursday-nights rotation in the morgue, since it meant she could watch Rosie during the day if John was out, and also ensured she could socialize on Friday or Saturday. She didn’t mind the weekend emails, though, and always laughed at the memes, mostly screenshots from _Silent Witness_ , often tagged on at the bottom of a trainee query.

She needed to call Mum, too, give her what bare-boned details she could. Mum never asked questions, thank God. Then text Lisa something celebratory about an effective thought record. Lisa _would_ want to ask questions, but those would have to wait for at least a week.

A text from Sally flashed across the screen. “On my way with Rosie. Be there in 20. Don’t think she’s slept.”

Lovely. A quiet evening in with a cranky 18-month-old. No idea as to the whereabouts of said toddler’s father, though Mycroft had made it sound as though John was to be in his own form of debriefing for a bit.

Molly set to work on clearing her inbox as quickly as she could.

* * *

“God, Mols. How do parents do it?” Sally was passing off a teary-eyed Rosie, along with her changing bag and a lone stuffed tortoise. Anthea had placed Rosie’s car seat on the floor by the stairs. “I know I’m never going to be mistaken for a mum, but I don’t think I look _that_ terrifying.”

Rosie had her arms out for Molly as soon as they’d come through the door, and now had her head tucked up against Molly’s neck, one hand fisting into her ponytail. Molly could feel little hiccough spasms as she rubbed gentle circles on the baby’s back.

“Even babies feel anxious, Sally. If Rosie hasn’t been sleeping, it’s even harder for her to calm down. It’s not you.”

Sally gestured toward Molly. “But look at _you_.”

“She _knows_ me. I’m her godmother who watches her at least twice a week. She _doesn’t_ know IRVs or sirens or being whisked away by the British Government…”

“ _Yet_.” Anthea coughed under her breath, and Molly smiled.

Sally glanced around the foyer, and Molly caught a distinct flash of _damned posh people_ in the look on her face. Anthea stepped forward and handed Sally an envelope.

“Why you people trust me with national secrets, I’ll never know. Gotta dash, Mols, but I hope—”

Molly nodded. Rosie was on the edge of falling asleep, her little arms loosening their grip. “It’s fine, Sally. Mycroft told me about as much as he could, I think.”

“I’m sure, but—”

Molly tried to look as reassuring as she could with a sleepy toddler in her arms. “We’ll be fine. You know where we are—stop by for tea if you can.”

“Already issuing invitations. You adjust faster than I could, Mols. I’ll try to come by in a day or two.”

“Say hello to Greg from me.”

“Sure thing.” Sally gave Anthea a nod, patted Molly on the shoulder, and went out the door.

Anthea had already picked up the changing bag and the tortoise and was waving Molly up the stairs. “Let her sleep, but you’ll want to wake her in an hour or two for dinner, I think. There’s a good variety of food in the fridge.”

Anthea knew about sleep schedules and feeding routines? Where did Mycroft _find_ his people?

“Not a mum, Molly, but I do have nieces and nephews. Working for Mycroft doesn’t mean forsaking all others, you know.”

“But it means mind-reading, does it?” Molly shook her head as they walked into the nursery, where there was a simple, sturdy crib, a changing table, and a rocking chair. The room was on the rear side of the house, away from the street, and it was quiet. Rosie always liked the quiet, needing near-silence for naptime, shying away from loud toys. Molly laid the little girl in the crib, careful to not wake her. Anthea fiddled with a baby monitor, angling the camera, and Molly realized that she’d seen a monitor app on the mobile she’d been given.

 _These people_ , she thought, _think of everything._

* * *

Anthea took up her chair in the foyer again, and Molly migrated from the bedroom into the dining room, the monitor app pulled up on the phone. She could see Rosie’s chest rising and falling in the twilight-blue dark.

Emails were sent out to the trainees (Jenna always, always misspelled _pneumonectomy_ , even with spellcheck, and Markus really needed to learn how to use the college library system himself), Mum was called, and Lisa texted back with a “Good for you, but I’m still seeing you next week. Don’t be dodgy.” Molly wandered into the kitchen, hoping for some toast and a glass of orange juice. Or maybe a glass of wine.

Anthea was right—whoever stocked the fridge had gotten avocado and peaches, Rosie’s favorites, but there was also a jar of Nutella and a bag of salt-and-vinegar crisps on the counter. _Molly’s_ favorites.

There weren’t many people who knew about Molly’s habit of dipping her crisps in chocolate-hazelnut spread. Two of them were dead. Of the four who were living, one was in a small house in York with a passel of Molly's nieces and nephews, the second she’d just called "Mum" on a phone that wasn't really hers, and the third hadn’t spoken to her since she’d given him back the ring.

She’d said _I love you_ to the fourth. Yesterday.

And he’d said it twice.


	7. The Russian Novel

Molly had always been a reader. She’d grown up on a healthy diet of fantasy novels as a child, Lewis and Tolkien and Pratchett, before taking a very deep dive into Austen and Eliot and the Brontës as a teenager. Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky didn’t appear on her shelves until the middle of her specialty registrar years. She’d come home from a long night in the morgue, put the kettle on, and read a chapter or two of _Anna Karenina_ or _Crime and Punishment_ (which was, unsurprisingly, her favorite) before ordering a takeaway lunch from the Asian fusion restaurant down the street. It sometimes took her years to get through a single novel, but it was always worth it in the end.

She’d been working her way through _War and Peace_ for a year or two, and was nearly finished. She loved Pierre for his intense emotions, pitied Andrei for his intense detachment, and despised Natasha for her intense impulsivity. There was more than a little bit of Natasha in Molly, she thought, which probably added to the bitter taste in her mouth when she read about Natasha’s love-at-first-sight for Andrei, then Anatole. She shouldn’t begrudge Natasha the _constancy_ of Pierre’s love—it’s a _story_ , get a _grip_ on yourself, Mary Vivian Hooper—but it didn’t seem fair.

Oh, she knew the spark, the way she’d go pale and then flush, the jittery excitement of anticipation, waiting for someone to enter the room. She remembered it from sitting next to Paul Harper in sixth form chemistry, from midnight histo study sessions with Alec Liu during Foundation Year 2. From that awful week with Jim in 2010, from those lovely early dates with Tom in 2012.

From nearly ten years of Sherlock waltzing into the lab, intent on her microscopes and pipets, her paperwork and agar plates, her dead bodies that he developed the horrible habit of calling _his_.

It was such a terribly easy thing to do, falling in love.

* * *

She left the crisps and Nutella alone, found instead the orange juice and toast, and curled herself into a chair in the parlor. Anthea glanced up as she passed her in the hall, but hadn’t said a word. Molly propped her phone up on a side table, monitor app on, knowing that she needed to get Rosie up soon. But the baby could wait a few more minutes.

The evidence of the snacks on the counter meant one of two things. Either Sherlock had told someone what she liked to eat when she was feeling down, or he had put them there himself. The second seemed less likely, seeing as how she’d been in the dining room for much of the day, unless he’d gotten them in while she was asleep earlier in the morning. The first seemed almost equally unlikely, because as obtuse as Sherlock could be about emotions, he was still capable of maintaining a confidence. He’d seen her with her Nutella and crisps on more than one occasion—barging into her office shortly after the pool incident with Jim, John's blog pulled up on her computer ("Even that little meeting had been part of the game."); barging into her flat more than once during his dead years, which always seemed to coincide with the aftermath of another awful blind date.

She shouldn’t _try_ to figure it out. She wasn’t a Holmes, prone to sussing out every microscopic cell of data. That is, she dealt with microscopic data of a different sort, but hers had to do with cause and effect, not motivation and prediction.

She was never good when it came to motivation. It was, she knew, the reason she never let herself truly move on from the enormity of the first crush she’d had on Sherlock. Even Tom was only a half-arsed attempt, and it didn’t end well. After that, she’d… given up the effort. Every couple of months, Lisa would bring it up in their sessions, but it was as though she’d slammed her feelings for him into a morgue locker, where they stayed frozen, iced over.

An apt metaphor, because bodies will still decompose in a negative temperature cold chamber, just more slowly.

It had been a crush at first, nothing deeper than a concentrated admiration for his face and his mind. The way he treated her didn’t even register for months and months, fixated as she was on her own heartbeat whenever he swept into the room, and once she did realize he was, in his way, _using_ her, it seemed useless to force him to stop. He wasn’t _really_ hurting anyone, she was helping not only him but Greg and Sally too, and she was tired. After that Christmas party, she was so very tired. Sherlock had meant his apology that night, she’d realized (not to mention the look on John’s face), and it seemed best to forgive and forget. To never mention it again.

She _needed_ to forget because she was still having panic attacks on the Tube anytime she saw someone who looked the slightest like Jim. That was the priority with Lisa, working through panic, not whatever silly school-girl emotions she was feeling for a man who only seemed to look past her and not _at_ her. But then she started paying closer attention to Sherlock, not just superficial admiration but the concerned kind of attention she gave to her friends, and she discovered that her crush had gone and that she did, in fact, consider him a friend. Cared for him as a friend.

She saw the sadness, she was there to help him through it, he stopped by her flat when he was dead, not for conversation but for a door he could close himself behind, for someone he knew asleep in another room down the hall.

Then there was Tom, and for a moment she’d thought she was over Sherlock, she’d moved on. But he came back from the dead and everything changed, but it was really just the same. His almost-hidden sadness, her inevitable helpfulness, same deeper and deeper care until it wasn’t just care anymore. That fucking day in the lab, when he’d been tracking Magnussen but also shooting up, and the _other_ fucking day in the ambulance, when he’d been tracking Smith and _still_ shooting up. He was _killing_ himself over his guilt, his manic hero complex, his inability to recognize the absolute gift of his own brilliance, the same inability to recognize the unconditional love of his friends.

She knew, she _knew_ it wasn’t realistic or optimistic or really all that healthy, keeping a decade of feelings in the morgue locker of her heart. But she was a certified, DipRCPath-holding Fellow of the Royal College of Pathologists.

She knew the proper temperature for the long-term storage of unidentified remains.

* * *

On the baby monitor, Rosie shifted and began to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note, a thank you for the comments and kudos and subscriptions and bookmarks! This story is a WIP, and I'm anticipating somewhere around 15 chapters total, but I also know that my uploading might be a bit uneven. I post-as-I-write, so as long as I have time, I'm trying to do at least a chapter a day!
> 
> Keep yourself well and well-loved.


	8. The Surviving Street

Anthea was already taking Rosie out of her crib by the time Molly made it up the stairs, so she got a clean nappy and wipes out of the changing bag. Rosie was a bit wary of Anthea, but more curious, not quite so uncertain as she’d been with Sally. “Magic touch,” Anthea winked as she lay the baby down on the changing table.

Clean and at least a little better rested, Rosie was content to sit at the table in a booster and eat her avocado, peaches, and chicken. Molly had studiously avoided looking at the other items still sitting on the counter in the kitchen.

It wasn’t unusual for John to be absent at dinnertime, so when Rosie asked for “Da?” Molly just shook her head with a smile and scooped a few more avocado slices onto her tray.

“Not for a little while yet, Rosie. You’ll see your Da soon.”

Anthea was sitting with them, eating a takeaway salad— _no crisps and chocolate for her_ , she couldn’t help but laugh to herself—and Molly gazed at her for a moment before opening her mouth, only to close it.

Anthea raised her eyebrows in question. “Yes, Molly?”

“I was wondering—do you think I could take Rosie out for a walk tonight? I don’t mind if someone else needs to come along, but it’ll be a while before she can go down again and I think some fresh air would do us both some good.” One of the officers had dropped off Rosie’s pram, and it was set up next to the car seat in the hall. It wasn’t quite light out any longer, but from the windows Molly could tell that the street was well-lit and fairly empty.

Anthea consulted her mobile for a moment and then nodded. “That will be fine. We have enough eyes on the street to rival the Palace, so there isn’t much need for concern. But I’d be happy to walk with you.”

* * *

Between the two of them, they cleared the table, put Rosie in her jacket, and managed to maneuver the pram out the door. Looking down the street, Molly realized that she actually recognized where they were.

“This is Roupell Street, isn’t it?” Anthea had started pushing the pram up the cobbled pavement, and Molly followed. “My mum loves period pieces, so I know I’ve seen it on the telly before. I didn’t know anyone actually _lived_ here.”

“Some of the homes are in better shape than others, given renovation restrictions,” Anthea pointed towards chipping paint on a windowsill and cracked brickwork in a wall. “But it’s been a useful location for Mycroft when the need arises, so we’ve put in effort to ensure comfort and a modicum of peace.”

The street _was_ peaceful. Given the rumbling of trains from behind them, Molly figured that they were walking in the opposite direction from the station, probably toward Blackfriars Road. The street was narrow, a single lane for cars and a single parking lane, with a pavement on either side. Pale lamplight shone out of most of the windows of the two-story terraces. It was like walking through London a hundred and fifty years ago, Molly thought, just brick and cobbles and lamplight. They passed a pub on one corner, flower-boxes draping over its black-paneled entrance. People inside were laughing. A block away, a train rattled past on an elevated rail line.

“Do you like it?” Molly looked at Anthea. “Your work, I mean?”

“I like it right now.” Anthea’s smile was serene.

“This can’t be usual, though… Babysitting the daughter of your employer’s brother’s former flatmate? Protecting said daughter and a morgue doctor from your employer’s criminally insane younger sister?” Molly peeked into the pram, and Rosie gave a one-armed wave. She was holding tightly to her stuffed tortoise with her other arm, one of its soggy green feet stuffed into her mouth.

“No, this isn’t what a normal evening entails. But I do like it. My work.”

Molly didn’t know what to say in response. It didn't seem that Anthea really wished to share anything else, but then she sighed and spoke again, more softly.

“I think you and I are very much alike, Molly Hooper. We’re good at what we do, maybe better than good, and sometimes people notice, but usually they don’t. So we’re able to be efficient and effective and solve another person’s problem in half the time it would take them to solve it themselves, though they don’t notice that either. But we enjoy it and we’re better than good at it, so why do anything else? We chose it, after all, from the very start. Before anyone noticed at all.”

Well, then. Ambiguity aside, _that_ certainly gave Molly an idea of what Anthea’s work life was like.

Anthea glanced at Molly as they came to the end of the next block and turned to walk back down the pavement on the opposite side of the street. “My problems are usually a bit more living than yours, I would imagine.”

Molly laughed. “I’d hope so. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if you recognized more than a few of the bodies I have in my fridge. Maybe your problems turn into my problems?”

“I think you’ve been spending too much time with the criminal set, Molly.”

“You know you’re not wrong.”

* * *

Rosie wasn’t quite ready for bed once they’d returned to the house, so Anthea brought a small crate of toys down to the parlor and the three of them sat on the rug, turning board book pages, fitting puzzle pieces together, and trying to coax new words out of Rosie. Molly asked Anthea about her nieces and nephews, and Anthea asked Molly about her most recent publication, a short article in the RCPath Bulletin on pedagogical practices for trainee mentorship.

“You enjoy teaching?” Anthea asked as she tried to keep Rosie from climbing onto the hearth.

“I wanted to be a teacher, when I was little,” Molly replied, starting to stack books back in the crate. “You don’t usually grow up wanting to cut open dead people. I didn’t—I wanted to teach primary. Always loved kids, always wanted younger siblings. But I took an education tutorial my first term at uni and was bored out of my mind, while loving the lab work that turned everyone else’s stomach. Now that I have trainees of my own, though, I do get to teach, and it’s lovely.” Rosie had curled up in Anthea’s lap, and Molly smiled. “She took to you faster than most.”

Anthea brushed back hair from Rosie’s forehead. “I always loved kids, too. Never wanted to be a teacher, though. Or a mum, really. I’m too tidy for it.”

“Mycroft seems to be more than enough to handle. Why have children when you have the British Government to fuss over?” Molly laughed, and Anthea’s eyes crinkled in amusement, but she was looking past Molly to the doorway of the foyer.

“Why indeed, Molly,” said Mycroft as he stood in the threshold, leaning on his umbrella. “Anthea would vehemently agree that I am more than enough of a trial, comparable to young Rosie, I’m sure.”

Anthea rolled her eyes and stood with the sleeping Rosie in her arms. “At least she keeps to her schedule, _sir_. Which means I’ll be putting her to bed while you chat with Molly.” Mycroft touched a finger to Rosie’s shoulder as Anthea walked past. Molly had the sense that both Mycroft and Anthea were more relaxed than they had been earlier in the day. Maybe it was after-hours for Anthea, if there was ever an after-hours, working for Mycroft. Or maybe whatever threat Eurus posed was easing. Mycroft certainly looked his usual self again, tiepin in place, waistcoat neatly pressed. His eyes, too, were warmer than they’d been, lacking the worry they’d held before.

He lowered himself into an armchair, but Molly kept her place on the rug.

“Well, Dr. Hooper. You’ve been corrupting Anthea with domesticity and dead bodies, I presume.”

“I like her.” Molly pulled at a frayed edge of the rug. Despite his slightly less disconcerting presence, Mycroft still made her feel a bit uneasy. He always seemed to say the most inopportune things.

“No need for defense, Molly. She appears to return the sentiment. In fact,” he smirked, and she tensed in preparation for whatever pebble he was about to sling, “there appear to be quite a number of people in this world who… _like_ you.”

Oh, she could absolutely _stab_ him with his own umbrella.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of a fluff chapter (though maybe we needed one after last chapter's angst), but I love the kind of instant-friendship that Molly and Anthea find, and I'm always down for some babysitting. 
> 
> I also love Mycroft, who writes one-liners in his sleep.


	9. The Failed Test

In the end, Mycroft did not lose hold of his umbrella, and Molly did not face trial for the convergence of _actus reus_ and _mens rea._

Instead she had to content herself with glaring at him.

“Careful, Dr. Hooper. You are singeing my suit.”

“You deserve it.”

“Yes, I suppose I do.” Mycroft leaned back in the armchair, closing his eyes, and Molly tried to relax the tension that was building up in her shoulders, stretching her arms toward her toes before pulling her knees up to her chest.

“Why are you… here? Here again? Don’t you have…” She scrambled for words—assassinations to arrange? kingdoms to overthrow?—but stuck with the safer option. “Work?”

“This _is_ my work, for the moment.” His eyes remained closed.

“Sitting in a chair in a safe-house,” she said flatly. Her fingers fiddled with the rug fringe again.

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You should.”

 _Fine_. Fucking unassailable heights of the Holmes intellect be damned. She’d bring it up first, and deal with the consequences later.

“Tell me about the phone call.” Her heart felt like it was going to just stop, just absolutely fucking stop, but of course it kept going.

“Is that an order, Molly?” His voice had gone quiet, lost its teasing, but his eyes were still closed.

“Stop. Just… stop. I know you’re trying to protect me, or him, or yourself. But whatever it is, you damn well know that you can’t keep _circling_ —” She could hear her voice rising, becoming agitated, frantic, so she cut herself off.

He sighed and opened his eyes, turning them not towards her face but to the fire in the hearth.

“Circling.” He paused, then began again. “Every limit is a beginning as well as an ending.” This a bit under his breath. She had to strain to hear him.

“That’s—that’s the end of _Middlemarch_.” She wasn’t here for a fucking literature lesson, but Mycroft seemed to be the sort to utilize riddles to full advantage.

“Very good, Molly. Full marks.”

She waited. It had to mean something; he’d have to explain _something_. He kept his gaze fixed on the fire. In the hall, a clock chimed ten.

After a long silence, he spoke again. “At first glance, he appears to be Casaubon. Not beatifically good, not deplorably evil, but perpetually selfish. Consumed with himself and his work.”

Damn it, thought Molly, this _was_ going to be a literature lesson. No question as to which _he_ Mycroft was referring. He looked away from the fire, and she caught the sudden sadness in his face. It was like looking at a mirror of Sherlock’s face the day before the fall.

“It the _work_ that is the resentful, perishing spouse, Molly, forcing guilt-ridden promises that should never be made. He hides himself behind it, to be sure, but Sherlock has always clung to an overly idealistic vision of his circumstances.”

Molly narrowed her eyes. He wasn’t saying—

“‘To work as in a treadmill fruitlessly,’ is how Eliot put it, I believe.” Mycroft spun the umbrella beneath his palm. “My brother plays a noble, long-suffering Dorothea to perfection. Unable to recognize his own agency and its consequence, most spectacularly so when the decisions he makes are those closest to the heart.”

* * *

After _that_ little exposition, Molly felt a bit at sea. She knew what Mycroft was trying to say, veiled in literary allusion as it was. Her Eliot phase come back to haunt her.

“You heard it, then. The—the call?” Now she was the one looking at the hearth, flames retreating into embers.

“I was in the room, yes.”

“Sally found cameras… At my flat. In the kitchen. You could see me?” Best to stick with _you_ rather than _he_. It was still easier to form sentences directed towards the man in the room with her, rather than the man who wasn’t.

“Yes. There was a screen, camera feeds.”

“She—your sister—she… knew me?” She hadn’t worked that part out, how Eurus found her. Maybe through Jim? That Christmas conversation?

“She met you, once. Or at least saw you. When Sherlock arranged for the ambulance.”

A flash of memory, a doorbell, a house in the suburbs. Molly glanced toward Mycroft, who was spinning his umbrella again. A slow spin clockwise, twice around, then the reverse.

“She was there?”

“She was John’s therapist.”

Ah. That detail hadn’t made it into the afternoon debrief. No wonder. God, it always come down to fucking psychoanalysis. If Lisa ever, _ever_ turned out to be a fucking fake, Molly wouldn’t—couldn’t—

Mycroft made a sound in the back of his throat, something caught between a cough and a sob. “I told you that Eurus had compromised the entire facility, since Moriarty, if not before. She was playing the long game, Molly. And to her you were a game piece. A pawn.”

She didn’t want to cry, not again, but the cracks in Mycroft’s voice were widening, and if he was about to tumble into grief, she wouldn’t be able to withstand it.

“John has said that on that day, the ambulance day, he’d assumed Sherlock wouldn’t have thought of you for whatever plan he’d made to confront Smith. Said that assumption out loud, actually, and I assume Eurus heard. Saw you arrive at the door, you as important to Sherlock as anyone, which made you as important to _her_.”

Molly’s mind was spinning again, pulling at carpet threads.

“I’ve spent today in all kinds of rooms, Molly. In my sister’s cell, in an examination room at the hospital, in an interrogation room at the Yard, the dining room of this house. None today came close to the horrors of the rooms I stood in yesterday. One of yesterday’s rooms was yours, and it was _that_ room, your room, which destroyed my brother. It surprised her. She didn't anticipate the way he'd react. She couldn't. Sherlock is _beyond_ Eurus in a singular, defining way. He can _feel_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I just saw the anniversary Q&A video, and I can work with this. lol. 
> 
> Steven Moffat, three years ago: “He smashes up the coffin, he’s in pieces, he’s more upset than she is, and that’s a huge step in Sherlock’s development. The question is: Did Sherlock survive that scene?”
> 
> Steven Moffat, last week: “He does love her, but not in the way she would like to be loved, but he does love her. He would always look after her, he would always protect her if he had to. Hell would fall on anyone that attacked Molly.” 
> 
> Very few of us are loved the way we’d like to be loved. 
> 
> Rather, I’d hope we are loved **despite** the way we’d like to be loved.
> 
> \---
> 
> Also, a Middlemarch summary, without spoiling the book (how it came into this fic is beyond me, but where the muse leads, I follow): 
> 
> Intelligent, independent Dorothea Brooke marries an old-man-scholar named Casaubon, thinking she’ll be fulfilled in helping him write his book. But instead she finds herself not in-love-with, but definitely in-interest-with Casaubon’s younger cousin Will (an aimless, artsy type). Casaubon goes mad with jealousy and writes into his will that if she ever marries Will, there will be no inheritance for her. After Casaubon dies, Will hides his love from Dorothea so she can keep the inheritance, and Dorothea hides her love from Will because she thinks he’s in love with someone else. Rapturous Victorian angst ensues.
> 
> Angst always ensues.
> 
> \---
> 
> I promise Sherlock will actually appear, live and in-person, in this fic. But Mycroft is just too fun to write.


	10. The Unfinished Concerto

Of course Sherlock could _feel_. Molly never understood why everyone always assumed he was an emotion-free automaton. You couldn’t write music the way Sherlock wrote music, solve crimes the way he solved crimes, look the way he looked before the fall, if you didn’t have a heart. Or, more accurately, a perfectly human limbic system.

And she wouldn’t have progressed any further than the first flash of fancy if he was truly as detached as they—the papers, the passing comments, even Tom (oh, that last, God-awful conversation with Tom)—made him out to be. For all her romantic failures, she could still recognize when a hopeless case was a hopeless case. Sherlock had never been hopeless. Not that she thought he’d ever feel the way she felt, nothing like that—she had worked to reconcile herself to both his continued existence in her morgue and his affected disregard. Even if she couldn’t quite manage her own damningly-human limbic system’s response to said existence. Or disregard.

But that wasn’t quite true, either. She knew that the indifference was a safety precaution, a protection. Year after year with Sherlock more than proved that: the painstaking precision of his death, the hurt caused by John’s anger, the tenderness at the wedding, the despair from losing Mary. Year after year, different bodies, different clues, different crimes, but always the same outcome.

Sherlock a bit older, a little more embattled, a little more caustic, and always, always sadder. And that was a limbic reaction that he could never quite mask—or at least one that she could never quite pretend to ignore.

* * *

Mycroft was still skirting the specifics of the phone call, but it seemed to Molly that he’d once again, like that afternoon, said what he’d come to say. He leaned on his umbrella, and as he stood, she got up from her place on the floor, legs sore and in need of a stretch.

“I can assure you, Molly, that for all this unappealing smoke and mirrors, things will soon be set back in their place. The exit interviews are nearly complete—no, you won’t have to make a statement, we’ve made sure of that—and once they’ve processed, you can return to Haggerston and Rosamond to her father.” Mycroft brushed at invisible dust on his suit coat, pulling his cuffs into proper position.

“And—and your brother?” Oh. Damn. She hadn’t meant to say _that_ out loud.

His eyebrows lifted, and Anthea, who’d come downstairs and was waiting to open the door for Mycroft, held back a laugh. Molly sent her a _save me_ look to no avail.

“Sherlock will be making a dramatic entrance, I’m sure, once he’s completed his myriad evaluations. I cannot provide you with the exact moment of his arrival, though he does have a childish habit of wresting IV drips from his veins. So it may be sooner rather than later. Best prepare yourself accordingly.”

Molly sputtered. “I—”

“No need to thank me for the warning, Dr. Hooper.” Barely the hint of a smile, but it was there in his eyes. He nodded. “Try to get some rest tonight. Anthea will be able to inform you of any pertinent developments. Sleep well.”

Once again, not even a chance to get a word in before Anthea had closed and locked the door.

And Anthea was laughing at her, of course she was.

“Oh, do shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything, Molly. You dug yourself rather deep into that one, though.”

“Sometimes I lose control of my mouth…”

“If it’s any consolation, most people do around Mycroft.”

“Not helping, Anthea.”

“Bed, Molly.”

Lord, she was tired.

“Yes. Bed.”

* * *

Tired did not always lend itself to sleep. Molly was so used to working nights that even on the weekends she wouldn’t fall asleep until the early morning hours. Reading helped, a few chapters of _War and Peace_ and a cup of chamomile a usual routine. But more often she’d also spend a few hours piecing through the day, thinking about the unfinished post-mortems, listing errands to run. Tip-toeing around memories of Dad, avoiding thoughts of Sherlock.

Sometimes she’d get up at one or two and do some meal prep, cut some vegetables, the same smooth slices she used in the lab. She wasn’t sure if that was too morbidly grotesque, how calming it was to cut into matter with a sharp knife, but to be fair it had been years since she’d cut into anything living. She figured she didn’t have too much to be concerned about when it came to murderous tendencies.

Night in the Waterloo house was no different. She read for a bit, listening to Toby purring at her feet. Ran through what she could remember from the day’s emails—Jenna working through the proper replacement of a single lung, Markus’s summary of bloodwork results.

Molly thought about Rosie and Anthea. Eurus and Mycroft. Sherlock. All of the pieces were there, she knew. Eurus had somehow coerced Sherlock into getting Molly to say what she’d said, and they’d been able to see her from Sherrinford. It was a test, a part of a bigger puzzle, she knew, one that was centered on _him_ , _his_ powers of fucking persuasion, and not her. And yet—

_Go on. You say it first. Say it._

She’d turned the tables, hadn’t she? Without knowing it, she’d pressed the pressure back in return.

_Say it like you mean it._

Molly pushed back the bedcovers, put on a pair of socks, and pulled a jumper over her pajamas. A quick glance at the clock showed that it was just after midnight, unsurprising given how awake she was. Vegetable slicing time. A knife in-hand would give her a routine motion, help mediate the whirling thoughts.

She opened the bedroom door as quietly as she could, peeked into Rosie’s room, and made her way cautiously down the stairs. Anthea was nowhere to be seen—sleeping, Molly hoped, because even Anthea needed sleep. There was a lamp on in the parlor, so she could see her way around the dining room table to the kitchen door.

The door was cracked open, with a bit of light coming from the other side, so Molly eased the door open slowly so as to not startle Anthea, who she assumed was sitting at the kitchen island, probably on her phone. Who should be asleep, given the time as well as the last thirty-odd hours.

Who _was_ , in actuality, most likely asleep, since Anthea wasn’t in the kitchen at all.

Molly froze in the doorway.

There was a glass of white wine and an empty plate on the countertop, next to the crisps and Nutella. There was also a very _full_ plate of what looked to be two cold beef sandwiches, a few slices of Rosie’s peaches, and four mince pies.

A third sandwich was suspended midair above the plate, halfway to a certain consulting detective’s mouth. Who was just _sitting_ there, _looking_ at her. Holding a damn _sandwich_.

A heartbeat, and Molly found her voice.

“Sherlock, I swear to _God_ if you’re planning to drink that wine while there is methylene blue in your veins, you can fucking think _otherwise_.”


	11. The Midnight Guest

Sherlock looked… peaky. Wan. It wasn’t the heat of an opiate flush, not the husk of heroin, though, given the ambulance ride, she knew there were still months and months of withdrawal ahead. In the pale light of the kitchen, he was translucent. Wraith-like.

A wraith who carefully set his sandwich on top of the other two, picked up a napkin, and wiped at his mouth. Staring at her all the while, unblinking.

In the silence, Molly felt a warmth press against her ankles and looked down to see Toby slinking past her legs into the kitchen, rounding the island to presumably paw at Sherlock’s shoes. That cat had always been impeccably disloyal.

Sherlock bent down and picked up Toby. Molly could see the flick of a tail above the sightline of the counter.

No. _No_. This wasn’t her house, wasn’t her kitchen. He didn’t get to pretend that this was just another one of his bolt holes. He didn’t get to be all domestic and wounded and _sad_ without any visceral consequence. It wasn’t _human_ , his habit of avoiding his own fucking _humanity_.

“The wine is for _you,_ Molly, not for me. If you’ll sit.” Oh, wounded and sad was _exactly_ what was playing across his face. Uncertainty, too, but closed-off, even as he didn’t take his eyes from hers. His voice was cool, detached. “Please.”

She took the long-way around the island so she wouldn’t have to walk behind him, and pulled out the stool. Sherlock’s hand was steady on Toby’s back. She took a sip of wine and closed her eyes. His remained fixed on the doorway.

“You’re on buprenorphine.” _The first medication to treat opioid dependency that can be prescribed from an office and not an in-patient clinic_ , she found that internal med-school-Molly could still recite from memory. “And probably naloxone.” God. His fucking drug habit. She’d always kept an at-home kit below the sink, just in case he ever appeared on the wrong edge of overdose. As if there were such a thing as a singular wrong edge. She wondered if there was a similar kit in the cupboard behind her. “Did you tell them, in hospital? Eurus gave you a sedative, didn’t she? To get you to Musgrave? She could have _killed_ you, just with that, without knowing—"

Molly realized she was kind of laughing, but kind of crying, too, and Sherlock had pushed a clean napkin towards her, and she was wiping at her eyes and trying to put down the glass of wine without spilling it and Toby had jumped to the ground because Sherlock was standing next to her instead of sitting, closer than he’d been. The fingers of his left hand had started tapping on the counter. She tried to catch the rhythm. It was a little like watching him play the violin. She took a deep breath in, and then out.

“Please tell me,” she said more quietly, without looking at him, really, just looking at his hand on the counter, “that you didn’t discharge yourself. Or I will take you back to Bart’s and I will have Markus do your labs while I fucking supervise.”

His hand stilled. “It was a full exam, Molly. Mycroft wouldn’t—” his words stumbled. “ _I_ wouldn’t have wanted otherwise.”

“Bloodwork?”

“Clear other than Suboxone. Which has been _prescribed_ to me, so no need to presume that I’m… dealing.” The disdain in his voice was palpable. If she had been looking at his face, she would have rolled her eyes.

“Hydration?”

“IV in hospital, and still working on it.” He pointed to a case of bottled water on the floor.

“Appetite?”

“A bit of nausea for the past twenty-four hours, but also—” he pointed at the full plate—“working on it.”

“Headache?”

“Terrible.”

She sighed. “And you won’t be sleeping anytime soon.”

“Sleep has never quite been my area.”

“Sleep is everyone’s area, _Sherlock_. Work on it.”

“Withdrawal, _Molly_ , may force my hand on the issue.”

“Well, that’s your _problem_ , isn’t it? Your hand being _forced_ —”

She froze. Damn. There went her mouth again.

* * *

He retreated, sitting back down on the stool a bit farther from her, but kept his torso angled towards her. She started twisting the damp napkin between her fingers. He was watching her, she could tell, and she supposed she could make an effort to return the favor, but it was so damn _difficult_ , looking at him.

“Don’t—don’t apologize, Molly.” His voice was careful and measured, but not as cool as it had been when she’d first walked into the room. “I don’t deserve it, _you_ shouldn’t offer it, and I’m already drowning in the deluge of Mycroft’s guilt. I don’t need to add yours to the cocktail.”

“He told me, you know.” It was easiest to just stare at his shoulder, so she fixed her gaze there, on the crisp stitching of his shirt. “Mycroft. About Sherrinford, and Eurus. Twice, actually.”

“I know.” 

“You—”

“My brother has the distinct misfortune of _being_ the British Government, Molly. It’s his _job_ to handle the aftermath of disaster, national or otherwise.”

“Otherwise, in your case, seems rather personal.”

Sherlock huffed out a breath, and she did look at him, then. _Really_ looked at him. He was wearing one of his typical button-ups, top button undone, and dress trousers, and leather loafers. If it wasn’t for his face, someone might think this was his usual midnight self, scrounging for scraps in Mrs. Hudson’s fridge. But there was a visible pulse at his temple, and the lines across his forehead were deeper than she remembered, and his hair was more of a tangled mess. His left hand was tapping on the counter again. He wasn’t quite frowning, but his eyebrows were drawn together in concentration, or concern, or consideration.

“How’s your head?”

“Burning.”

She reached a hand forward, but paused. “Can I—”

He waved the hand that had been tapping. “Yes, fine. I won’t bite.”

She stood, stepping closer, and placed the back of her right hand against his forehead, then his neck. He’d closed his eyes, and his face relaxed into softer lines. He didn’t feel feverish, just a bit warm, which was probably due to a delayed medication dosage and lack of fluids. She moved to pull her hand away, but he reached up with his own right hand and locked it around her wrist, holding her in place.

“Don’t move.” The words were soft, but she could hear them clearly enough. “Please don’t move.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. I wasn't entirely sure how much of Sherlock's addiction would come into this fic, but here it is. Unavoidable, I think. Like what Sherlock and Molly are attempting to dance around via medical chit-chat, but will very shortly have to discuss like the grown-ups that they are.
> 
> Your comments are lovely and brilliant and I don't deserve you.


	12. The Ball of Thread

Molly could feel Sherlock’s pulse beneath the back of her hand. She let one moment pass, then another. His eyes remained closed. Gently, carefully, she tugged her wrist from his grip and took a step back. Sherlock’s arm dropped to his side as he opened his eyes. He looked… wounded. Still wounded. Not the eyes of a petulant child, but those of a man who’d been through hell the past few days. Like Mycroft, so much like Mycroft, but with less restraint. Like the day Sherlock had stood at John’s door and she’d turned him away. Like the day before the fall. Like the evening after it.

She took another step back, her hip bumping against the countertop. She leaned against it for a bit of stability. Took in a breath for fortitude.

“You need to tell me about it.” She knew _he_ knew what _it_ was, but she wasn’t going to leave this one to chance. Whether or not it would destroy whatever fragile friendship she’d laced between them over the past five years, she owed it to herself. And she owed it to him, too. She took another breath, blew it out. “Sherlock, whatever it is, whatever Eurus made you do, whatever she made _me_ do, you need to tell me. I can’t—” Molly could feel the bile building in her throat, but she pushed it back. “I _won’t_ stand here and be a fucking pillow, _or_ a fucking pincushion.” God, how did her voice sound so calm when she could feel herself splintering inside?

She watched the tension work its way from his shoulders to his fists. He had a nervous habit, when he was working out a puzzle, of circling his fingertips with his thumb. It was the only tell she’d ever found, other than just looking at his face, and she could see his thumb circling, first clockwise, then counter. But, more than that, he was looking at her. Really looking at her.

He _never_ looked at her like that, like he could see her the way she saw him. Oh, he could do his fancy party tricks on her as well as anyone, tell her latest shopping trip by the looseness of her ponytail or shoelaces. But she could count on one hand the number of times he’d actually _seen_ her: the Christmas Apology, the Day Before the Fall, the Inopportune Dinner Invitation.

And now.

She could feel her own pulse, now, instead of his. It seemed to be the only sound in the room.

* * *

“Magnussen.” Sherlock’s voice was measured, but she heard the jagged edge to it. “If I’m going to tell you, I have to tell you about Magnussen.”

Molly thought—Magnussen. Christmas, a few years back, before Rosie was born, before Jim showed up on the telly. The newspaperman shot dead on his own balcony, something like that.

“And Mary. I have to tell you about Mary.”

“Sherlock—” she tried to give herself some time, some time to think. _Mary_. Mary who was one of her closest friends, Mary who was _dead_.

“In fact, I think we’d better go into the parlor for this. As domestic as she can be, Anthea is no Mrs. Hudson, and I doubt she’d stoop to picking sandwich bits off the floor.” His voice turned from measured to brisk. 

“I don’t—”

“In case you were to throw them at me. The sandwiches. So we’ll go into the parlor.”

She found that he was tugging her by the wrist again, but loosely, and she didn’t fight him, following through the dining room and sitting in the chair Mycroft had taken earlier in the evening. Sherlock stood near the hearth, but looked her way instead of into the fire.

“I can’t tell you _everything_ , Molly, much as I wish I could. But some things are best left in their files, and some things I’ve erased, and the effectiveness of both methods has been made more than clear this week. But I’ll tell you what I can, and I have to start with Mary and Magnussen.”

Molly listened. There were moments when she had to close her eyes, and when she closed her eyes she could see Mary as if she were there, right fucking _there_ in the room with them, and Sherlock would pause and let her catch up to him and his story and then he’d start again. He worked through the part about falling forwards or backwards, how she—or his mind’s version of her, at least—coached him through _that_ little directional challenge, and she added the scene to her _more questions later_ list.

She’d decided she wouldn’t interrupt him unless it was absolutely necessary, something that Lisa did with her whenever she needed to talk things out, and it seemed to be working fine. Sherlock laid out a very skeletal framework of Mary’s connection to AGRA, to Magnussen, to Vivian Norbury. And then it was on to a rehash of Culverton Smith and Eurus, which she knew most of from Mycroft, but she let Sherlock talk through the disguises and the deception. And then finally, finally, they arrived at Sherrinford.

“There was a coffin in the room.” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse. She guessed that he’d been talking for longer than Mycroft had, and there was no Anthea to bring them tea. But he hadn’t moved from his place by the mantel.

“A coffin?” She’d taken to repeating, sometimes, what he said.

“It was the first part of the test, deducing the coffin. Whose it was. And—it didn’t take long to see it was yours. Even John could see it.”

“How?” It was three, maybe four in the morning. She should be exhausted, she should be checking on Rosie, but she was riveted. She was _in_ this story, not just listening to it. She’d stretched out her legs, and her toes could almost reach where he stood on the rug. Sherlock was still rubbing circles with his thumb.

He gave her one of his inscrutable looks. “It had a plaque, an inscription. It said ‘I Love You.’”

“But—”

“The coffin told me what _you_ had to.”

Fucking Eurus and her fucking omniscience. “The call.”

“Yes.”

“But you couldn’t tell me. Obviously.” Fuck it, she _was_ exhausted. “That it was a test, that you were trapped in a fucking maze like fucking Theseus.”

“Eurus is fully human, as unearthly as she appears. But yes. I couldn’t hint, couldn’t even raise my voice.”

“Or—”

“Or she’d kill you. Threatened to, at least, though Sally said no explosives were found in your kitchen.”

Molly closed her eyes. _Like fucking Jim all over again_. She relaxed her muscles, breathed from her diaphragm. God, she needed to pay Lisa more.

When she opened her eyes, Sherlock had moved away from the mantel and pulled a chair from the corner closer to her own. Not close enough to knock knees, but if she wanted to she could reach out and touch his sleeve. He was looking into the empty hearth, its flames long since gone to smoke.

“There was a time, Molly, when I could pretend I couldn’t feel. I thought I managed it quite well, really, except perhaps during spats with my brother, or when my parents want to be taken to the theatre.

“But that time, that emotionless time, was fueled by things that I’ve tried—that I’m _trying_ to change. The… drugs. The lies, the ones I told to John, to my family, to you.

"I thought I could do very well alone. Thought I thrived off it, being solitary, being smart, being so _fucking_ smart that I forgot, I _forgot_ that I had ever been anything else.”

She reached out, then, and put a hand on his sleeve. His arm was shaking, probably a bit from the Suboxone, but mostly from the adrenaline, the exhaustion. He didn’t turn.

“But I never forgot, Molly. You can never forget, because the day comes, it _always_ comes, when everything you could possibly love is taken from you.”


	13. The Last Trial

Almost twenty years on, Molly could still remember what it was like to come home from university and find her dad asleep on the sofa. Always more pale, always more thin. Always trying to make the fucking best of his chemo treatments and blood tests, his weakening and weakening body. He’d fill dinnertime with jokes while pushing food around on his plate, and come home from a walk to the shops with a book for Mum held in a shaking hand.

Molly could still remember watching her dad die just a little more every day.

She understood, sitting there next to Sherlock, one hand on the pushed-up cuff of his shirt, four in the morning in a terrace house in Waterloo, a toddler sleeping upstairs and government protection outside the door, that in all likelihood Sherlock had never faced death that way—slowly, head-on. For him, there was always the option of turning back the clock, of stopping it entirely. Even with post-mortem cases, he was always rushing towards the high of the solution, the cure, the explanation. He was always one step ahead of pain, or grief, or loss. His own as much as anyone else’s. He had to be, Molly realized, because if he ever lost his footing, he’d be buried beneath the weight of it all.

His arm twitched under her hand, but she increased pressure, just a little, just to let him know that she wasn’t about to let go.

* * *

He’d lapsed into silence, still staring at the hearth. She could hear the tick of the clock in the hall, the low hum of a passing train. It felt like there was nothing to be said, but everything, too. Sherlock was _grieving_. Grieving Mary, and Eurus, grieving his failures and maybe his successes too. Molly didn’t often encounter the families of the one-living bodies she pieced apart and then together again, but she knew what it was like to lose, if not your entire world, than at least a pillar of it. And she’d had time, months and months of lethargic, ever-moving time, to learn what it meant to have less and less of a father. The one thing Sherlock never had, the one thing he was always fighting, was time.

­­­But this—this appeared to be _the_ time. Even through his arm, she could feel his slow intake of breath. She could only look at his face for so long before turning her own gaze to the hearth. As if an old habit, her thumb began following the weave of his cuff, back and forth.

“I meant it, you know.”

She didn’t turn, but it felt as though the whole room did, tilted sideways, or at least her heart made some kind of obscene dive deep into her stomach. “I know you did.” God, what an idiot she was. What idiots they _both_ were.

“No, I—”

“Sherlock, you don’t have to fucking _explain_ the damn _words_ to me. You thought I was going to die, and you thought _you_ were going to die, and you did what you—”

“Molly—”

“—needed to fucking do to get out. You don’t owe me—”

“Molly.” His voice was sharp. He had somehow gotten her hand into his own and was gripping it _hard_. She closed her mouth, took a fucking breath. His grip didn’t loosen, and she glared at him. He relaxed his hold the tiniest bit, but didn’t let go.

“The thing about being _me_ ,” now he sounded not just exhausted but also exasperated, “is that not only am I excellent at convincing myself that I do well enough alone, but I am also quite good at convincing everyone around me. John always gets the same inane look on his face whenever I say something congenial, and Mycroft is no better—but also no better himself. My parents, perhaps, are the most aware of my more sensitive inclinations, but they know better than to acknowledge them aloud.

“And you, Molly Hooper, for all your _seeing_ and _noticing_ and _feeling_ ,” he wasn’t insulting her but they sounded almost like jabs, the beat of each verb, “for all you _are_ and all you are _not_ , you are just as ignorant as the rest.”

He took her hand and placed her fingers around his wrist, against his skin. His pulse was… erratic. Irregular.

“You know as well as I the causes of a supraventricular premature heartbeat. And in this case it isn’t the Suboxone.”

“You’re flirting with me.” Her brain couldn’t quite catch up with his heart rate, though her heart seemed perfectly able to match his.

 _Now_ he rolled his eyes in irritation. “I’m not _flirting_. I’m _telling_ you that an influx of norepinephrine is causing an increase in my heart rate because you are _touching_ me.”

“A particular brand of flirting perhaps known only to my dearest brother,” came the dry voice of Mycroft in the doorway. Molly jerked a bit in surprise, but Sherlock left his right hand where it was, keeping hers in place around his left wrist.

Mycroft gave them a look that could only be described as one coming from an older brother. “I would tell you to take it upstairs,” the smirk was dripping from his voice, “but I’m afraid it would make for a terribly poor influence on young Rosamund.”

“Rosie is _asleep_ , you pra—” Molly spoke just as Sherlock said, “I’m not your _dearest_ , I’m your _only—”_

Molly glanced at Sherlock, trying to tug her hand away, but she stopped when she noticed something that looked like a flush on his face.

“Already ganging up on me, I see. I’ll be sure to warn our parents, Sherlock, when it comes Christmas. Mummy will be so pleased.”

Mycroft was no longer hiding his grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my /gosh/, all, it's been a wreck of a past few weeks. My university's term just started, and while my own classes are all online, it's still /awful/.
> 
> But here at last is chapter 13, and I'm hoping to be in a bit of a better position for finishing up the last two chapters in pretty quick order!
> 
> Also, you all are so lovely and supportive and your comments make my day each and every time. I love you all.


	14. The Needed Rest

Despite Molly’s protests, Mycroft was not wrong.

They _did_ take it upstairs. “It” being themselves, and a “taking” which mostly involved Sherlock keeping his hand around her wrist, pulling her to her feet, and tugging her past Mycroft, up the stairs, and into her room. Sherlock stretched out across the bed, sitting up against the headboard, and he’d let go of Molly long enough for her to peek in on Rosie down the hall and then curl into a chair just slightly out of wrist-grabbing reach. Sherlock was facing her, hands steepled in front of his chest. He’d turned out the overhead light, and the bedside lamp wasn’t quite bright enough for her to make out his expression. She was staring at the closed door.

“No worry of Mycroft joining us here, Molly, if that’s your concern.”

She kept her eyes on the door, but she sensed a ripple of uneasiness that he hadn’t displayed downstairs. _Best to let him work it out himself_ , she thought. _Or at least decompress enough to leave me alone for the rest of my fucking life._

She didn’t mean it, not really. Yes, there had always been temptation in the idea of a Sherlock-less existence. A bit boring, of course, but she was more than capable of imagining what a _normal_ future could entail. A sharpened focus on research and writing, which could lead to a tenured position at a university, which could lead to less dead bodies and more living ones. Maybe a new boyfriend, maybe more than that—a family, children, a better reason for Mum to come visit, more than a single set of dirty dishes in the sink—

And yet.

“Molly.” Now there was an urgency in Sherlock’s voice, a hint of impatience. Her eyes snapped toward his.

“What, Sherlock?” She tried to tamper her exhaustion, but his eyes narrowed, and he shifted on the bed.

“I told you I won’t bite…” He trailed off. The uncertainty was there again, rather than the urgency, as though he couldn’t work out which emotion best fit the moment. One of his hands was pulling at the hem of the bedspread. The weariness around his eyes was deeper than it’d been.

Molly could feel her heartbeat in her throat again, in her stomach, in her capillaries, and she knew she was blushing. She also knew what he was saying. What he was asking. Sleep. They both needed to sleep. Focusing her gaze on the bedspread, the embroidered leaves and vines, she moved from the chair to the side of the bed he’d left empty. On top of the covers, not under. At least five inches of space between her body and his. Sitting up against the headboard, the way he did. Not looking at him. _Not_ looking. Barely remembering to breathe.

“I know you won’t bite,” she said, smoothing her own hand along the edge of the bed, feeling the embroidery threads catch beneath her fingertips.

“Is this—” Sherlock’s voice broke a little, and she looked at him, then. In the lamplight, she could make out a faint flush on his own face. “Is it alright? I don’t have to—”

“Stay.” Somehow she could hear her own voice, loud as her heartbeat was. “I want you to stay.”

She felt, rather than saw, the way he relaxed beside her. He didn’t lay down, though, and neither did she. But the bed was soft, and she’d been awake for too long, or at least her body was well aware of the time and the rest she hadn’t allowed herself. The tension in her own shoulders loosened, and her breathing slowed to match Sherlock’s nearly silent breath beside her. Sitting upright felt like an argument she was about to lose.

* * *

“Toby, get _off_ ,” was the frustrated whisper that woke Molly, just as she realized that she had fallen asleep, that she had _been_ asleep, and that she had, in all likelihood, not been asleep _alone_.

She refused to open her eyes and tried to keep her breathing steady. She’d turned onto her side in sleep, arms tucked beneath her head, legs curled under the covers— _under?_ —and Toby had taken up his position near her feet. The issue, it appeared, was that Sherlock’s feet were _also_ near her feet.

 _I still have my socks on_ , was her next thought. _And Sherlock is trying to be as still as he can._ It wasn’t as though she was pressed up against him, but she could tell his body was mirroring the curve of hers, a few inches away.

That, and his hand rested on the dip of her waist, beneath her jumper, just above the waistline of her pajamas. His palm was warm on her skin.

She was trying to breathe as though she was still asleep, but all she could feel was the warmth of his hand.

“Molly.” His voice was sleep-roughened, and he was still whispering. “Tell your cat to leave me alone.” His thumb moved a little along her side, not quite enough to tickle, but she squirmed a little. She felt the huff of a chuckle against her neck, but didn’t turn. She couldn’t, not yet.

“He likes you better than he likes me. You tell him.” She wanted to pull the pillow over her head, because she knew her face was on fire, but Sherlock would never let her live it down, especially if this waking-up-together thing was going to become a habit. His thumb had stilled, but his hand seemed to be less resting and more holding her in place.

“As much as I’ve remained in Toby’s good graces, it appears that he is reconsidering his alliances.”

Now Molly was the one holding back laughter, finally opening her eyes and lifting her head the smallest bit to look at Toby, who was still struggling to find a comfortable position at the foot of the bed. Sherlock was right—Toby seemed rather disgruntled to find that there were additional limbs taking up space he usually claimed. Molly pushed at him a little with her feet, and he glared at her before jumping down from the bed to stretch out on the rug instead.

Still not turning over, Molly lay back down and closed her eyes.

“Did you sleep?” she asked, just to fill the silence, just so she’d think of something other than the way the end of her ponytail was caught beneath his head, or the way his hand had moved slightly past her side, not higher or lower, but cresting the edge of her abdomen, crossing the linea semilunaris. _External oblique_ , she thought. _Rectus abdominis._ With her eyes closed, she could see the lines she’d trace across the muscles if she were about to slice them open. His fingers stilled, spanning just below the transpyloric plane, above the umbilicus, across the linea alba. She wondered if he could feel her pulse there, how erratic it was.

“I slept.” His breath was against her ear—he’d hitched himself an inch closer. “An unimaginable feat, I know. Especially with Toby’s presence glowering so close at hand. Damn cat.”

She laughed. _When did Sherlock learn how to make me laugh?_ “Let Toby be, Sherlock.”

“If _he’ll_ leave me be when I’m trying to sleep…”

Half of Molly’s smile was lost to the pillow. “He’s never pleasant in the mornings.” A part of her wanted to turn to see if Sherlock was smiling, too, but a larger part didn’t want to ever move. She untucked one hand from beneath her head and eased it down to rest on top of his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, friends. It's been /far/ too long, but this story is. going. to. be. finished. soon! Thank you for your words of encouragement, your love for this story, your patience in waiting for this chapter. I hope you're keeping healthy and well, even as we (in the northern hemisphere, at least) enter the darker months of the year.


	15. The Measured Pulse

When she woke again, the clock read just after ten—it was going to take weeks to readjust her sleep schedule after this week away—and she could make out the muffled sound of Rosie’s laughter from down the hall. Toby had reclaimed the foot of the bed, and Sherlock had vacated it.

Molly was used to having the bed to herself. She didn’t make a habit of bringing men home from the pub, and nights at the morgue didn’t lend themselves to lie-ins. That had been one point of contention with Tom, actually, the disinclination to change her schedule just so it would better match with his. “But you never go _out_ ,” he had complained on more than one Sunday afternoon. “It doesn’t make _sense_ for us, for you and me.” _More for you_ than _me_ , she’d thought at the time. _Men are absolutely_ daft, she’d thought.

But she kept things from him, she knew she had. How could she explain her need for solitude, for florescence and stainless steel and silence? It wasn’t the kind of job you’d bring home to the dinner table. Not the whiteboard notes, your gloves too bloodied to touch paper. Not the bone saws, the skull keys, the needles and thread. Not the bitter tang of formalin. The rush of air from the coolers. The elderly, the sick. The car accidents. The suicides. The children. 

Lisa could handle it—she’d come recommended through another doctor at Bart’s—so Molly did have an outlet. But even in their weekly sessions it was difficult to articulate the _care_ it took to do an autopsy, just as much care as a GP would take with a diagnosis. Or the way Molly could handle the worst case as a complete professional, but the next night barely able to keep from weeping over the scale.

It is a job for people who are comfortable being completely, utterly alone. You know that going in. You don’t work in a morgue to make friends. You tell terrible jokes just to be able to smile, you take all of your vacation time, you strip out of your scrubs and buy the brightest jumpers you can find. You research death, you do your job _well_ , so that others can _live_.

* * *

Sherlock’s absence wasn’t a surprise. He didn’t seem inclined toward lie-ins, either, most emphatically not with Suboxone in his system and a sister added to the family tree. Molly mulled over what it _had_ been like to wake next to him as she changed out of her pajamas and pulled her hair— _God, she needed a shower_ —into a braid. Prolonged skin-on-skin contact was new, whether the wrist or the stomach. And it felt _new_ with Sherlock. She’d acclimated, over the years, to the tap of his fingers on her shoulder, in request or an acknowledgement of thanks. There had been the kisses on the cheek, of course—those had been a bit more of a shock—and when she’d slapped him across the face—which _definitely_ was a shock.

She’d never felt so angry in her life, discovering he was using again, after discovering that she and Tom weren’t right, after discovering that she’d always _hurt_ , that she wanted to hurt him back.

“Do your mornings often start with glaring?” She hadn’t heard the door open, but Sherlock was leaning against the doorframe, staring at her. It wasn’t a deducing stare, but a bit softer, more inquisitive than anything else. “Has Toby been rubbing off on you?”

It was hard to look him in the face ( _such a coward, Molly_ ), so she tried focusing on his shoulder, the mahogany trim of the frame. “I was just…” She sighed, and then grimaced a little. “I was thinking about slapping you.”

He lifted a single eyebrow. “Right now?”

“Not _now_ , you idiot. When I _did_ slap you, after your results. When John brought you in.”

She watched his shoulder lower a bit in relief. “That was months ago, Molly.”

“Two years, Sherlock.” God, maybe she _should_ slap him again. She knew she was nervous, unsettled. What did you _do_ the morning after falling asleep with—next to—in the same bed as a man who referenced norepinephrine in a come-on?

“I deserved it, I suppose.”

Her eyes flew to his, then. “You _suppose_?”

His hands came up in defense, in placation. “Did. Did deserve it.”

Damn it. He was _laughing_ at her—she could see the way his skin crinkled up at the edges of his eyes. She straightened her own shoulders and _actually_ glared.

“Hate to interrupt this domestic tableau, but we’re about to head home,” came a voice from the hall. “Rosie wants to say goodbye to Molly, Sherlock, if you’ll move.”

Sherlock stepped into the room to let Molly through the door. John was there in the hall, looking a bit worse-for-the-wear than Sherlock. Even the changing bag looked like it was more of a weight than usual, but Rosie was smiling, happy to hold her father’s hand. “They kept me in hospital a bit longer than his royal arse—”

“ _Language_ , John!” Molly covered Rosie’s ears as she gave her goddaughter a hug. “You know she’s repeating everything she hears.”

“Much to the dismay of her profane father,” came Sherlock’s voice from the doorway behind her.

 _Fuck off_ , mouthed John, and Molly rolled her eyes.

“Sherlock told me you took the week, Molly, so don’t feel like you have to, but you’re more than welcome to come over for lunch on Thursday...” John looked about uncertain as she felt as he trailed off, glancing between where she crouched before Rosie and where Sherlock stood at the door. “You too, Sherlock.”

She felt her face turning warm again. “Thanks, John. I’ll text.” She kissed the top of Rosie’s head and gave her a wave. “Bye, love. Be good for Da.” Rosie blew kisses over John’s shoulder as he nodded at Sherlock and made his way, changing bag, turtle, baby and all, down the stairs.

“They’ll be okay, Sherlock.” There was a blank kind of worry in his face. Molly stood to her feet, but didn’t move closer. She caught the edge of fear that still lingered, and wasn’t sure what would happen if she pressed up against it.

“I don’t—” he paused.

“You _don’t_.” It wasn’t hard to look at him now, not when she needed him to hear exactly what she was going to say. “You didn’t know then, and you don’t know what might come next. And sometimes you choose, and sometimes you choose wrong. But this was _not_ your fault.” She stepped closer, then, almost crowding him in the doorway. “It’s going to take time, God knows it took me fucking _ages_ , but you’re going to learn that it was _not your fucking fault_.”

She’d reached out and grabbed his wrist, could feel the pulse there, strong, like hers. Sherlock Holmes had a heartbeat, and she knew that he knew it. He regulated his entire life around it—boring or not boring, caring or not caring. He’d measured each moment by his own pulse. His was a living body, not a dead one, though it could have been. So many times, he could have been.

His hand twisted around a bit, wrapping around her own wrist, like it had last night, and she knew he was doing the same thing she was—taking a measurement, gauging a response. If it took another ten years, it would take another ten years, but she wasn’t about to let go. And neither, it seemed, was he.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to add that the more I work on this piece, the more I see how /similar/ Sherlock and Molly are.
> 
> That's all.


	16. Epilogue: The One Plus-One

“You do realize, Molly, that I could attend the ceremony with you?”

“No, Sherlock. Not allowed.”

“The wedding party will only be concerned if there aren’t enough seats at dinner. No one is going to notice an extra guest in the pew—”

“No, Sherlock. We’ve been _over_ this.”

“Just because _you_ returned the RSVP _too soon_ —”

“It wasn’t _too soon_. It was two months back, the response was due, and you don’t bring someone you’re _barely_ in a relationship with to a wedding that you were invited to _before you got together_.”

“ _Barely_? Is that what this is? Unless you’re referring to a state of undress, in which case I’d happily oblige—”

“There won’t be any _bribing_ me—”

“It’s worked before—”

“Because I was a fucking _idiot_ —”

“ _Language_ , Molly—"

* * *

The new routine, the after-Waterloo-routine, as she took to calling it, was so like the old one that sometimes Molly hardly noticed any difference. She had her interns and her research, papers to present and lectures to write. She still worked nights, still had her Haggerston flat, still watched Rosie and had Thursday lunches with John and weekly sessions with Lisa and weekends out with Meena.

But there were also changes.

Instead of attending Thursday luncheons with the Watsons alone, Sherlock would join. Not every week, not even on any kind of regular schedule, but more often than not he’d be standing at the end of the walk, waiting for her, before bundling into the house.

Instead of spending all of the Christmas holiday in York, Molly found herself, on the morning of Boxing Day, in the middle of an intense conversation between Mrs. Holmes and her younger son. They were sitting in a refurbished 221B, drinking tea around the kitchen table (“No peeking in the fridge, Mummy, for the love of God”). They were talking back and forth about Cornelia Zangheri Bandi and possibilities of human combustion, and Mycroft looked particularly peaked when his mother started going on about the wick effect. Mr. Holmes, of course, was away at the shops, like any sane person would be, and Molly couldn’t seem to stop laughing.

Instead of sweeping into the lab at any hour of the night, Sherlock was almost—almost, but not quite—professional in his appearances. Always accompanied by John, or Greg, or Sally. It seemed staged, or maybe stilted, the way he would request her expertise, as if he were trying to increase the distance between them.

But Molly knew better.

He was _trying_. Trying so hard it nearly hurt as much as the hurt before. How he would pause just a moment before speaking, how carefully he phrased things around Greg, how nervous he was whenever John needed to look at a bullet wound. The gifts for his parents, for Mycroft, that he pretended he _hadn't_ put under the tree. Oh, he tried to hide it, just as much as ever, but the problem was—which wasn’t a problem at all—the problem was that everyone seemed to notice _him_ just a little bit more than they once did.

As if he’d given a bit of himself to each of them, a bit of his own staggering mind, a bit of his resolute heart.

Which, of course, he had.

And no one knew that gift, that giving— _truly_ knew what that meant, for him, for all of them—better than Molly Hooper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading, for your comments and kudos. This is the last bit, for now—there could be a post-epilogue epilogue at some point, you never know—but I like leaving them here. I think it would be a long road for these two, and not a traditional one (because normal is /boring/, of course), but I think it's a content future, and a happy one, for two characters who haven't really allowed themselves too much happiness.
> 
> Much love to you all.


End file.
